Finnicky
by Harmlessly Weird
Summary: This has nothing to do with the word finicky and everything to do with Finnick Odair.
1. Return

**I think Careers are just a little less sickened by what they've been through during the Games than victors like Katniss and Beetee.**

**And Finnick is _so_ a deity descended from Olympus. DO NOT DENY IT. And his middle name is _so_ Jace. DO NOT DENY IT.**

The walk up to my new house is much longer than I expected. Probably because I've been implementing long-unused back alleys and shortcuts to escape the crazy camerapeople intent on capturing every moment of my return. I think I've shaken off all of them, at last.

I take out my house key – solid brass, monogrammed with _F.J.O._: Finnick Jace Odair. Unlocking the door takes no effort, even though I've never used a key before. I push it open dramatically, stretching this moment of triumph, of _victory_, as long as I possibly can.

Anticlimactically, my sisters Vanesse and Scylla have already decked out the interior with pink and purple.

Nessie comes down the stairs, calling back up, "Cy, did you steal my mascara again?"

Then she catches sight of me. Her mouth falls open. She drops the makeup bag in her hand and tackles me.

"Finnick!" she squeals.

I push her off, laughing. I'm her older brother, sure, but Nessie treats me like I'm younger.

"The train was fast," I start to say, before Scylla comes racing down the stairs.

"Nessie? You said Finnick's name – OH MY GOSH!"

She jumps on/tackles me too. My sisters are so emotional. No, that's not the word. _Expressive_ is more like it.

"Ack," I manage. I'm pretty sure that giant Career girl was less heavy than these two. They get the message and get off. I stand up.

"Oh my _gosh_," little Scylla repeats, still staring up at me like I'm a deity descended from Olympus.

There's more pounding on the stairs. Mom and Dad come down at the same time.

"Finnie," Mom breathes. Okay, I hate my pet name, but right now I'll let it slide.

I run forward and hug her. I can't keep up the cool tough victor front. I'm _sick_ of the cool tough victor Finnick Odair. I want easygoing, funny Finnick Odair back. The boy who rolled his eyes and laughed good-naturedly when his mom called him Finnie. The guy that everyone wanted on their team at school. The boy who didn't start training, didn't devote his life to winning the Games.

Because now, that new Finnick doesn't know what to do. The Games are over. He's back home.

I let go of Mom and hug Dad, too. Then an impatient Scylla says, "What was it like? Robyn said that you must have been really scared, but I didn't believe her. I told her that you were _never_ scared. Right?"

"Sure, Cy," I say with a smile, obliging her another hug. Of course I was scared. I was terrified, on my toes, trying to keep from being stabbed, through most of the Games.

I love to be able to say I _was_. The Games are over. Forever. Never going back. There is no way in heck I'm ever going back. Ever. No victors ever go back.

I realize I'm chanting in my head for consolation. I let go of Scylla.

"You must be so hungry," Mom says sympathetically. Of course. Typical mother. My stomach is more of a concern to her than my brain. I don't have the heart to tell her that I stuffed myself several times over on the Capitol train.

"Yeah," I say. "Starving, actually."

She beams at me and says, "I'll bake salmon."

When I don't react, she prompts, "Your favorite?" I note Scylla and Nessie watching me. Dad's watching them.

"What? Oh! Yeah. Mm, I love baked salmon." Which is true. I do. I was just distracted.

"Good." She hurries off into the kitchen, apparently glad to be doing something. Either that or she's just eager to use our brand-spanking-new two-oven kitchen with stainless steel everything.

Dad follows her. I don't blame him. He's never been one for shows of emotion. He probably has no idea what to do now. Thankfully for him, Nessie and Scylla take over. Babbling, they drag me upstairs to their new rooms and show me mine. Scylla's so obviously proud of the way she's decorated my room – with hot pink streamers and confetti – that I agree to sleep there tonight. But the first chance I get, I'm taking down those streamers. I think their color has imprinted on my eyelids already.

**One year and two hundred and thirteen days pass…**


	2. Reply

"Oh, come on, Nadina," Dad says playfully. "Just one year of not calling him that isn't too much to ask."

I smile at her. For my sixteenth birthday, I asked her not to call me Finnie this entire year. Clearly it's killing her, but she agrees.

Nessie and Scylla have collaborated and given me a handmade man satchel. Silently, I resolve to throw it away as soon as possible.

Other birthday gifts are from Mags, my mentor: a new fishing pole and some money. I examine the burnished coins stamped with Coriolanus Snow's face. I don't particularly hate our president, but I don't like him either.

Mags didn't actually show up. She's busy at some function in the slummier part of the district. She sent her gifts through my friend Salin. Salin, being the _lovely_ friend she is, forgot my birthday. Actually, not to sound conceited, but whenever she's around me she seems to forget everything. We mainly are friends because we're both victors. I doubt she knows anything about me.

Right now, she's deep in conversation with Vaughn, another victor. He's a solid seven years older than me, but very similar personality-wise. He and Salin have hit it off pretty well. I smile in their direction before turning back to the rest of my "party".

Which is, basically, my family.

Suddenly, though, a young brunet Peacekeeper comes running in. He doesn't look too out of breath, but he's evidently been running for a while.

"Mr. Finnick Odair?" he says.

"That's me," I reply quickly. What is a _Peacekeeper_ doing here? I don't appreciate a policeman crashing my sweet sixteenth.

He bobs his head as a sign of respect and says, "The president wants to speak with you."

Silence. Salin and Vaughn turn to face us. Scylla, innocent little girl that she is, is first to speak. "President _Snow_?"

"Yes," the Peacekeeper replies with a perfectly straight face.

"_President Snow_, leader of Panem, wants to speak with me," I confirm.

"Yes. Come with me, please, sir."

I glance back. If this is a trick, I think I could take this Peacekeeper and maybe one or two more. I still keep myself in top physical condition. Reminds me of the times when I had to in order to be accepted at the underground Career Tribute training center.

The Peacekeeper's foot starts tapping. "This is President Snow we're talking about," he finally snaps. "He'll kill us both if we don't get down there within two minutes."

The unexpected familiarity throws me off for a moment. But he has a point.

"So come on. Don't want to leave the president waiting."

"Ah, but that won't be necessary."

The speaker stands just behind the Peacekeeper. Behind me, someone's glass drops and shatters. The tinkle of glass does nothing to shift the stillness of the moment.

_President Snow is on my doorstep_.

"You may go back to your Head Peacekeeper. He has been informed of the correct punishment for your lack of promptness." The Peacekeeper hurries out, face whitening.

Snow strides in and grabs my arm. I resist the temptation to shake it off. Leaving my birthday party frozen behind me, he guides me into a side room.

"So. My dear Mr. Odair." The way Snow says "dear" curls it into a menace, a sinister sign of the power he has. "Dear" is just a way of shoving that in my face. "Are you aware of what the career of _victor_ encompasses?"

"Um."

Snow laughs then. The sound chills my bones.

"Why, when you won, you probably thought that you would live a life of luxury. Forever."

"What?"

"This is very true."

"Sir, I'm not following you."

"'Sir'?" Snow says. "Don't worry about your 'sir's. All victors are quite close to me. Formalities are dropped quickly."

_Replaced with profanities, I hope_, I think bitterly. I've known Snow for all of twenty seconds and I already loathe him. He just exudes that kind of aura. Of course, this is the president of our country that I'm talking about. Voicing these thoughts to anyone could mean death.

_Stop meandering. Listen to the president._

"So, Mr. Odair." Snow slides into a chair in front of a table, leans forward, and puts his fingertips together. "Sit, sit."

Making me sit down in my own house. Okay…I obey. After all, this _is_ the president.

He smiles, puffy whitish lips curving into an arc. "As I was saying. The life of a victor is one of luxury. Your only obligation is to train new tributes."

I wince. Last year, I got my first tribute to train: a twelve-year-old boy named Tayne. He was killed brutally. I locked myself in my bedroom for a day, staring at the ceiling. I wouldn't call training my "only" obligation. As an obligation, it's crazily painful.

"Of course, we don't want to let you go at that."

A quote from a dead guy that I read somewhere flashes through my head. _Only kings, presidents, editors and people with tapeworms have the right to use the editorial "we"._ In Snow's case, I think and hope it might be two and four.

"You see, we want our victors polished. You're our public face, after all. It would do no good to see you all fattened up with your only responsibility to train young children. You have to serve the people of this country."

_What is he getting at?_

"So I propose that you serve the Capitol's denizens with..." He hesitates for a brief moment. "Your body."

He leans back and gives me a moment for that to sink in.

I jump away. "You disgusting –"

"Now, before you call me a pervert, think of it like this. I am in desperate need of money, and this _occupation_ might be rather fun for you. You're sixteen, and because of that it's not illegal. I should know."

"No." I don't care that I'm turning down the president. _Prostitution?_ I'm perfectly rich; what does Snow think he can make me do this...this _wrongdoing _with? He can't kill me; I'm a victor, a celebrity. People would notice.

So what can he do?

"No." I shake my head and repeat for good measure, "No."

"No?" Snow asks lightly, drumming his fingers against the table. "Pity." He gets up. "You will regret this decision one day, Mr. Odair." And then he's gone, left the room, left my house.

His words reverberate in my head.

_You will regret this decision one day_.

I mentally shove them aside. There is no way I would _ever_ regret this.


	3. Reaped

Waves of heat roll over me. I sigh and start drumming my foot. Thankfully this year I'm not one of the unfortunate mentoring victors onstage.

"It's time to pick our girl tribute!" our new escort, Djina Clay, calls out over the crowd. This draws halfhearted cheers from some of the people. Four isn't as bloodthirsty as One and Two, but there is no doubt that it is bloodthirsty.

She purses her tomato-red lips and blows a kiss at the crowd. More cheers are elicited, mostly from the group of dirty, sweaty, salty men in the corner of the square. Djina is only wearing a tremendously tight, skin-colored dress that goes from her armpits to a little down her thighs. She may as well be naked.

She flips her obviously straightened hair and dramatically puts her hand in the reaping bowl. The crowd hushes and she pulls her hand out, inch-long nails clicking against each other.

"And our lucky girl is…"

Some idiot starts drumrolling.

"Vanesse Odair!"

Shocked silence. People turn to look at me. Nessie, down in the fourteen-year-old section, gives a little "hm?" like she's heard someone else's name.

"Vanesse Odair, please come to the stage."

From my vantage point, all I can see is Nessie's back. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides before she takes short, brusque steps up to the stage.

"Attagirl!" Djina beams and jumps a little, whitened teeth flashing, as one of the men snickers.

I find my mouth forming her name. _Nessie._

I watch dazedly as the boy is picked. But a single thought keeps playing behind my eyes.

_Why did no one volunteer?_

And I know why. People think that I would be angry if Nessie's place was taken, while in reality I'd do anything to get her off that stage right now. But what can I do? If I start shouting "It's okay to volunteer for her!" people will think I've lost it like old Park Spray, who got addicted to sleep syrup and went off the deep end years ago. But they'll still not do anything, because…it's too late. Someone volunteers for the scrawny boy Djina picked. They recite the Treaty of Treason and grab Nessie away, all while I simply watch and do nothing. Just stare at the empty stage, wondering where Nessie went.

A hand tugs at my shirt. "Finnick," Scylla says quietly, "we should go."

I glance at her. _Where's Nessie?_

"_Finnick_," she repeats, "we should go see Nessie."

"What?"

"Nessie was just reaped, Finnick," she says. She chokes a little on "reaped".

Everything crashes into place. _Nessie was just reaped._

Scylla seems to sense that I've regained my understanding. She begins to jog off in the direction of the Justice Building. I have just enough self-restraint left not to sprint and instead walk quickly after her.

The Peacekeepers at the entrance of the Justice Building don't ask for my ID. They know me. I'm ushered into Nessie's room hastily, Scylla clinging to me to avoid getting lost.

We're thrust into her room, the door quickly shut behind us. But one of the Peacekeepers, a girl barely two years older than me, murmurs, "I'm sorry." Then she's gone and I'm facing my parents and my little sisters.

Nessie throws herself into my arms. Silent, sobless tears stream down her face. I feel them soaking my shoulder.

"You'll make it," I whisper, knowing as the words leave my mouth that they're lies.

"You of all people know I won't," she whispers back. "I'm not _you_, Finnick. I…I haven't been training or anything. It's only my second year in. I never thought…"

Horrible guilt strikes me. It's _my_ fault that no one volunteered for Nessie. My – own – stupid – fault. For being a victor.

Nessie lets go of me. Scylla holds out her arms for a hug, earning a tiny, tiny smile. Nessie hugs her too.

"Finnick," Mom says, sounding desperate. "Is there _anything_ –"

"Stuff yourself in the Capitol," I blurt out. "Eat as much as you can without getting sick." I think for a second. Nessie's quick; even during my training, she was extraordinarily hard to catch. "Run from the Cornucopia. Just bolt. Find water – a lake or something. You can swim, use it to hide. Just…lay low, sweetie. Okay?"

She gives me the weirdest look. I've never called anyone "sweetie" in my life.

"Okay," she says, dragging it out into a sarcastic question.

A Peacekeeper comes in: the girl that told me she was sorry. She has yellow – not blond, just yellow – hair and awkwardly large features. Nothing special. But definitely sympathetic, one of the nicer ones. She seems depressed to be coming here.

"Miss Odair?"

"Yes?" reply Scylla, Nessie and Mom.

She gestures to Nessie. "It's time, miss," she says. Nessie gets up, color now officially gone from her face.

Scylla whimpers. Such a sad, pathetic sound. It sums up everything coursing through me right now.

_I'm about to permit my little sister into the Hunger Games_.

As I realize this, the Peacekeeper vanishes with Nessie into the Justice Building, and it's too late.

My train of thought keeps on, while my body reacts. I jolt to the door.

_And yet…why Nessie? The chances of her being picked are so low…especially after you won. It's like the reaping's rigged._

_Rigged_.

_Who would rig it, Finnick? Who would have the power –_

_The president. The president would have the power._

_The president…_

I stumble back, into Dad. He gets out of his seat and I sit down.

That sick, _sick_ man. This is just a message from him. Of course. My little sister – lost to the Games, now. There's no way he'll let her live.

Unless, maybe, just maybe…

Will I trade my virginity for my sister's life?


	4. Watching

I run a hand through my hair. Scylla whimpers and buries her face in my shirt. Dad and Mom cling to each other in the love seat. No tears yet. But if Nessie doesn't make it through the next two minutes, there will be.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-seventh Annual Hunger Games begin!"

I desperately scan Nessie's arena along with the camera. It's mainly sandy, like a beach. Okay, good, Nessie is used to running in sand. There are no water sources that I can see, just a few scraggly tumbleweeds blowing across the landscape.

The camera pans back to the Cornucopia and my heart drops into my stomach.

Bottles. Clear plastic bottles, all full of equally clear liquid. They fill the mouth of the golden horn. The water is all in the Cornucopia. Bloodbath guaranteed. Nessie won't last without water.

The camera flicks over each of the tributes' faces. I'm somewhat proud to see Nessie's perfect deadpan. She pushes a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear before the camera moves on.

The gong.

Nessie appears to have made her decision. She grabs two knives at her feet – the weapons are much farther away than the water – and runs toward the bloody action that's already started. I want to scream _no_, but she's making the right choice.

Another girl tries to stop her. She dodges her and keeps running. For a split second, her eyes go down to the knives in her hands, but then she just runs.

Scylla brings her face out of my shirt. I put my arm around her. She's shivering.

The scene cuts away from Nessie, which I must tell myself is a good thing. It means nothing interesting is happening to her. In that twisted place, "interesting" is blood, gore, death. So Nessie's okay.

She's in the background of a fight. Gotten two bottles of water. I can't see the knives anymore. She shoots away, a bolt of lightning. The camera darts after her. She runs until the Cornucopia is a little sun on the horizon. Finally slowing, Nessie slides the knives out of her sleeves.

Scylla speaks first. "She's okay?"

"She's okay," Dad, Mom and I chorus.

She sits down on a pile of sand and stares at the sky. I allow myself to examine her outfit. She wears leggings and flats, like she's going to a party. I admire her for her ability to run in those things. If _WHEN_, I mean _when_ she gets back, I'll need to congratulate her.

The skintight brown jacket she wears doesn't appear to be overheating her, and it seems useful because she can slip her knives in the sleeves and tilt them to take them out. She has a hair band and the token that Mom and Dad gave her before I came into the Justice Building.

My token, the braided bracelet whose colors mean "best of luck".

The camera goes back to the bloodbath, and I let out a breath I've been holding. _The first five minutes. Nessie's made it through the first five minutes_.

Five minutes is better than one minute, right?

Finally, after we get only periodic glimpses of Nessie for five hours, the last non-Career drops at the Cornucopia. The five that remain huddle together, and the cannons begin going off. I count in sync with the tributes that are still alive.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Gamemakers' water-in-Cornucopia strategy's worked. Fifteen dead.

Why couldn't it have been more? The line of thinking doesn't shock me as much as it would before I went into the Games. Why couldn't it have been more, so that Nessie would have less competition?

The camera goes to her as one of the dusty tumbleweeds goes past. She regards it blearily. She's tired. Stumbling forward, she falls onto the sand, not so much in weakness as fatigue.

Her eyes drift shut, and she falls asleep.


	5. Waiting

Mom arrives as soon as she's done making breakfast. Scylla and Dad and I have gotten a couple minutes of sleep at a time in the front room, watching desperately.

Nessie's still asleep on the sand, out for a solid twelve hours. I want to know what happened to make her so tired. My sister's not stupid. She knows that sleeping here is just weakness. But she's so innocent-looking when she's sleeping. Nothing can happen if she waits just a little longer to wake up, right?

"And here we return to Vanesse Odair, the silly young sister of victor Finnick Odair," Claudius Templesmith announces.

I grind my teeth. Nessie's approach during her week in the Capitol was to be childish, young, playful. She appealed to all the wannabe mothers with her child's act. They're probably laughing at seeing her with knives.

I don't know whether or not to hate that they're linking me to her.

She blinks awake, slowly. Templesmith laughs throatily. "And now she's waking up," he continues. "What will she do next? See later when the Hunger Games come back on." I want to scream.

As ads for Quintus Toothpastes and Vaughn Scented Candles come on, I turn to Scylla. She's shaking. "Finnick," she whispers. "Is Nessie gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, she is, Cy. Definitely. She's going to be fine."

She sniffles and goes back to watching.

Yesterday, during an ad break like this, I ran down to the train station and begged the yellow-haired Peacekeeper to send a letter to the Capitol. It was just four sentences, me to President Snow.

_Honored President Snow,_

_I've been thinking about your offer. Under my present circumstances, I see no option but to agree to your terms. I accept your proposal. Please let me know when I can begin my new employment._

_Awaiting reply,_

_Finnick Odair_

She looked at the addressee, looked at me hopelessly. "I don't know what I can do, Mr. Odair," she said. "I'm just a Peacekeeper. There are hundreds of us – _thousands_ of us. I don't know what I can do."

"Please," is all I said.

She smirked then, her full lips twisting. "I'll try, sugar," she said, her entire demeanor suddenly changed. She lowered her eyelids. "How about a kiss for luck?"

She closed her eyes and puckered her lips a little and it took me at least five seconds before I realized she wanted me to kiss her.

I'd never kissed anybody before. As first kisses go, Yellow-hair wasn't horrible; she wasn't full on ugly, and she'd been nice to me. I glanced around, unsure, before leaning in and pushing my face against hers. After a second or two I pulled my head back. She opened her eyes and tilted her head.

"Somehow I thought you'd be better at that," is all she said before turning away from me. "I'll do my best to get this to the government. I can't do anything more than that." She walked away briskly, leaving me no time to reply.

I shake my head. I can't think about that letter. Surely if President Snow really wanted to know my response, he'd visit me again.

The commercial break times out with a final call for Caligula Nursing Home – _When your folks are too batty to stay!_ Mom presses her lips to my forehead. "They're coming back to Nessie," Scylla pipes up.

"We return with Vanesse Odair," Templesmith says.

Nessie yawns, blinks awake, and looks around. A bush that wasn't there when she was asleep has appeared a couple feet in front of her. She gets up carefully, watching it: she knows the Gamemakers have put it there.

Good girl.

She's still watching when the first mouse jumps out. It goes at least four feet, landing at her feet and startling her enough to fall down.

Bad girl!

It's followed by three more. She scrabbles back on the sand, the mice scurrying toward her. The camera goes to them in slow motion as one bares its teeth. Something tells me those aren't regular mice.

Nessie's come to the same conclusion. She's drawn one knife and holds it out warily, getting up. She towers over the mice, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous. Taking slow steps back, Nessie keeps her eyes on them.

Then one jumps and latches itself to her hand. She screams, an actual in-pain scream and not a surprised one. The knife flashes and a very bloody dead mouse is hanging off her very bloody left hand. She screams again and drops the knife, trying to get it off. I want to smack her for letting go of her weapon. She tugs the mouse off and throws it at its snarling fellows. Apparently agitated by the smell of blood, they swarm the corpse as she picks up the knife and runs away as fast as she can, which is pretty damn fast. She stops when she's about a hundred fifty yards away. Checks her hand.

In the short thirty seconds since the bite, Nessie's hand has turned cherry red and swelled to twice its size. From the way she drops her knife again and cradles it, it must hurt like hell. A tear wells up in her eye. She blinks it away.

Scylla, Mom, Dad and I are practically inches from the TV.

Claudius Templesmith's narrative voice, which I've ignored, suddenly chimes in with "It looks like Vanesse Odair doesn't have much longer as the poison from the mutts starts to work."

The camera flashes to the mice, which scurry away from Nessie, their work done.

Nessie's full-out crying now, the pain escalating so high that she can't hold the tears back. She collapses onto the sand, squeezing her bitten hand. Its red color has changed to an asphyxiated blue, and the hand is visibly throbbing. The veins on her arm are starting to stand out.

Templesmith gasps theatrically. The next time I see that man, I am punching him in the face.

"Hm…yes. Folks, the poison in those mutts is deadly. It works within ten minutes! First it spreads through the area of the bite, then, as it starts to circulate in the bloodstream, it makes the blood vessels it goes through visible. And all the while, the victim is in agonizing pain."

Nessie screams, and Scylla screams with her. Contrasting with her freckly tan, veins are starting to show up on her neck. Her shirt's come up a little; I see the blue lines spreading down her abdomen. The sobs of pain dim into little muffles as veins start showing up on her ankle.

"Finally, once the poison is fully through the system, it knocks the person out and paralyzes all muscles, including the heart and the muscles required to breath. The person dies quickly. Looks like Miss Odair's arteries are beginning to become visible. Note the red lines on her collarbone – What's this?"

A silver parachute drifts out of the sky.

Nessie raises her head with effort. She takes in the parachute and realizes what it is. Her gaze drifts down to the actual item – a hypodermic needle.

Apparently the pain of the – vaccine? shot? treatment? – is nothing compared to what she's just been through. Summoning up whatever energy she has left, she grabs the needle, jabs it into her poisoned arm, and pushes the plunger down. She drops it, exhausted, and falls into the supine position.

"Miss Odair seems to have received the antidote! Lucky her, pulling in sponsors like that. I wonder, is it that brother of hers that is winning her this medicine?"

Nessie's wild eyes close. I pray that it's a result of the medicine and not of the bite paralyzing her. Templesmith confirms that, and I let out a breath of relief.

At least with her eyes closed, she can't see the passing tribute that stabs her through the heart.


	6. Weeping

We are frozen.

Ice is creeping through the room, I'm sure.

My first thought is _Scylla_. My arm around her tightens. She's still frozen.

My second thought is _Nessie_.

She's still onscreen, life flowing out of her, trying to blubber something. I realize that the last I ever see of my sister, Vanesse Odair, will be this pathetic image. Her on the ground with veins standing out and blood spurting out and her lips trying so hard to form words.

"I...won't break...for you," I hear whispered, until Claudius Templesmith's voice overrides hers and begins commentating on the funny way she's still holding on.

Scratch punching him in the face, I will murder him. I will throttle him and watch him beg for mercy and kill him and watch him die the way I am watching my sister die.

Nessie closes her eyes with apparent effort, keeping a defiant look on her face, and dies.

* * *

><p>Everything is dead silent, except for the boom of the cannon.<p>

Scylla jerks in my arms. Every muscle in her body has gone limp. She falls forward, eyes closed.

Dad has glittering tears perched on the ends of his lashes. Mom's face is buried in his side.

And me?

I'm completely numb.

No.

I will not accept this. This is just a nightmare, the worst I've had yet. Nessie isn't being lifted away on that screen. Of course not.

When the doorbell rings, I just get up to answer it. No questions asked. Yellow-hair hands me a paper with the presidential seal on it and closes the door. I open it robotically and read the words in curling writing.

_Too late._


End file.
